Sense of Self
by mundaneepitome
Summary: There are many things the young Uzumaki Naruto is. They are greatly outnumbered by what he is not, but it is easy to pretend. Pre-series. Oneshot.


**A/N: **This story was originally set in second person. I think that one is a much more powerful read, but since I'd like to keep this story on site and this site itself prevents you from uploading anything after a few days if a story is removed, well, whatever.

Just the 'you' portion was replaced, as well as tense agreement, but I had to manually do it. If you're interested in the original version, I'll provide a link on my profile one of these days.

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**Sense of Self**

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He has always been alone. It has always been like this, and he knows no other life. The skin that he rubs raw and the skin that breaks are his to deal with. The blood that flows from him and the mind-numbing, overwhelming senses become he who is lost. He tries going to other places, where he expects for something to change. He would not have questioned this life had it not been for others, who are far different. They speak of a mother and a father, and sometimes a sister and a brother. They explain these types of people are people, who are related to them who hold their blood in their veins, and they theirs. He finds it frightening yet he wants it. He wants something that only he can call them by that name. He wants it even more when the people stare at him with wide-eyes and react different to their children than to him. He wants it, and he wants it bad.

He is a child. He has always been a child. It is something he has come to accept about himself. He has no want to join their parties or their gatherings, but he longs for them. He openly says he will not, but inwardly, it is everything he wants. He wants to step on their toes and have them laugh it off amiably. He wants to experience everything harsh with them and have them bound to him in the way he has always been to them. It is strange; almost curious, he thinks, yet he has not had this experience. It is presumably something that will come later in life, but he wants it now. It is easy to see that he will not have it, but he wants for it anyway because it is something forbidden. Children want what they cannot have, and it is the same for adults. He does not know this, but he knows what he knows and he knows what he wants. He wants what they have.

He is one of the people. He hears their calls better than they do themselves. He knows their lands better than his own safe house, and he knows their people better than they do themselves. He watches them so much and it is not because he wants something like this, he tells himself, but he is wondering why he does not have the same. It is far too easy to compare what he does not have that they have, but it is difficult to find what similarities are shared. He doesn't understand this, but he doesn't think it is anything to worry about. He is within their midst, no matter what they say, and he is one of them. Though they say else wise, he is no different, be it from skin or by colour or by creed. Sometimes, he has doubts, and he wonders if there is truth in their biting words because he have never seen another with the blue eyes and yellow hairs he has.

He is impatient. He has never been good at waiting. He will move anywhere instead of standing, he will run himself ragged just for the chance to have one touch, one kind word. It is a foreign concept to him, the gentle touches and croons of a mother, and he has never heard of a father's warm embrace. He has only felt strength and he has only fallen beneath it one too many times. It is the only thing he knows how to do, or at least, it is the only thing they tell him to do. They always tell him to do this, he tries every time to break it, but they know as well as he does that he will always come back to it because there is nothing else for him.

He is lonely. There is nothing in this world that is his. He knows what belongs to others and he has been taught as such. He doesnot take what is not his because he has learned that what belongs to others, be it by possession or statement, is best left and given to them, for them to take and lay claim to. He does not move to avoid pain but he manoeuvres away. He doesn't understand their rage, or their passions, but he lets them think what they want, even if it makes him angry and frightened. To get attention, he will do anything it takes, and he will do it by the only way he knows how to. For him, it does not matter where it comes from, be it from the smallest child to the largest adult, be it from the words of mice or from the angry roars of humans. If it is something they give, he will gladly take it because it is the only thing for him.

He is different. There is a young lady from out of town who compares the eyes to the sky and the hair to the sun. She does not know how the others treat him, but she seems very patient and listens to him. She offers hints of words and sage advice, and she offers to buy him something. He does not know this concept of buying something, but she relates it to being normal. It is the simplest form of kindness an adult can have for a child that they hold no ties to, be it blood or by history or by relationship through persons, but he does not know it. He is amazed when she comes with something that is cold and tastes good because he has always known cold does not taste good. She calls it 'ice cream', he calls it 'cold'. He never sees her again, and at times, he thinks it is something that he may have imagined or dreamed of. What does it matter, he thinks. His only comfort is the warm feeling of hot water and noodles in his stomach, the familiar feeling of knowing he is full and not hungry, stomach trying to eat at what is not there.

He is hazardous. He influences others so greatly and wildly that they cannot help but be like him. He wishes to be everything that is them, but it is ironic they wish to be like him. They say they wish for the times they could spend forever outdoors, they wish for the silence and loneliness and the ability to live alone. They wish to have enough money, they wish for many things of his. But he sees past their lies, he sees past the short-term 'I wish' they give him because they are soon going home with parents and sisters and brothers and family that will never abandon them. While they wish for many things of his, it is them who go back to the warm, swirling lives that have no room or place for him.

He is angry. He does not have a name for this emotion that wells up in his stomach and makes him sick. He has this emotion that fills him up and makes him spit the words back at them when he is finally old enough to know. He has something to prove, they say, but only he knows it is not something to prove. It is what he sees and he knows what he sees is different from what they give to him, what they say to him. They give him nothing, he gives them everything, but there is barely anything in return. It does not make sense, he seeks to go past these boundaries they have set, but they always come to him. They always come get him back, no matter where he goes, but where he should be happy there is someone to get him when he has nothing and no one, he is angry. They do not come when they want to, they come only when he can no longer feel anything, when he is on the ground and the world seems composed of only the rough pebbles and dirt that dig into his skin, and the redness on his hands that remind him of that emotion. There is something that stirs inside him when he feels like this, and sometimes, he lets it. Sometimes he is left like that, with vision twirling in the mists and time a distortion. The red will not be erased from his eyes and he knows it enough now.

He is hate. He knows it often enough that he is able to put a sense of feeling into it, and he channels it eagerly. It comes so easily, it flows like a river, the telepathic strand between him and them. They are not him but he feels it anyway, the loathing and senses of disgust that they so easily transfer onto their faces and change in a blink of an eye when they turn to look so fondly at one of their own. He wishes to know where he went wrong, but they will not tell him. He wishes to know what he did wrong, but they blame him for other things. He tries to understand, but they do not let him. Thus, he does not let them and he thinks _it is only right_ because he has not yet been taught the meaning of fair. He does not know what other ways to compare it to other than what he sees with others with other people, and he knows for sure that it is not related to him because it is not something they allow him to have. It is not his, and he is different from them. They tell him nothing, they explain nothing, and they make it difficult for him. He feels this rage, he feels it, and it is impossible to quell.

He is undisciplined. They tell him this with harsh faces and angry voices. They raise them so high even though he can hear them. He feels fear, he feels panic, and yet he feels anger at this course of treatment. What is undisciplined, he asks. How is it possible for him to be something if he does not even know what it is? He uses the words they use, and yet they get angry. They have the right, he does not, they say, and he asks why, who made these rules, these boundaries and set lives. They are furious with him, and the gleams in their eyes are filled with things that he recognizes. He throws it back at them, he hates them, and they hate him, so it is consensual, therefore there is no reason for why they do what they do and so he needs no reason for why he does what he does. There is not one person to protect him, like he sees them do to themselves. They cast the blame at him, they hide when they cannot take it, they allow others to take it for them. Where he is worn and weary, they bring up a new person each time, the opposite of his state of mind, state of being, and he calls them cowards. They do not take kindly to this, and he learns not to call them that. But he keeps doing so, because it is the only way.

He is not strong. He is impossible to deal with, he is not well liked. People walk around him. They do not talk to him, they ignore him when they pass him in the streets, or they look angry and he, and he returns their hate. He has grown to realize that it is unnecessary to talk to them, but he does so anyway. He will make them look at him, he will get them to raise their voices. They seem to like doing that anyway, so he gets them to do it more. They say they do not likes doing that, but they do it so easily when he goads them, when he says little words and phrases that he knows other children would be able to get away with but he does not. They swarm over him in numbers far exceeding himself and he does not stand to take it. He knows them better than they know him and while they do not explain the reasons behind their actions, his mind has gradually accepted as this having to happen. There is no other way for it to happen, but he does not let it happen on its own. He will not let it happen on its own when it is the thing he can manipulate. This becomes part of who he is, and he grasps it, relishing the feel and taking this and feeling on a high. That is, until they get him.

He is on his own. He learns to live this life, he learns to adapt. This everyday life is his to lay claim to and destroy, eliminate, but he does not know of such terms, just as he did not know of such feelings or sentiments before he has seen. Everything he knows he has learned on his own, he has learned by watching, he has learned by learning from someone else. It is relatively easy to copy what they do, but there is a substantial difference between what he does and what they do.

He is a boy. It makes no difference what gender he may be, but there is a set thing in his mind. He is a boy, so he must act like this. He must be like this because he needs his own strength, he needs to be himself. He knows that a boy must suffer pain when he grows and within the company of others. He knows that girls may hit him but he may not strike back. What he does not know is that he is subject to a far more harsher crime than they are, and he suffers far more than anyone else. He do not know he suffers, he takes this as a part of his life.

He is things that are so simply seen. He is the boy they see wandering down the streets, the one who seems to be the only one who doesn't have a reason to what he's doing, but he wants to do it anyway. He is the only child that is out when it is time for night, and he is the boy who does not run screaming. He holds his ground; he attacks them with words because he is unable to physically return everything. Where there is blood, he is near because it is his blood, and it is their words in his head and his screams in his ears. He is easily recognizable; his spirit has yet to be crushed because _he will not. Let them win. __**Never.**_

He is a part of Konoha. He is the leaves that drift from the branches when fall comes, but and he dies in the earth when it is time. The rebirth is continued when the winter comes, cold smashing winters that make his bones freeze and make him tired and slow. It is all too tempting to close his eyes, but he does not want to close his eyes because there is someone who whispers in his ears that he will die. Though he does not know what death is, the anger suddenly shoots up when he feels unable to do anything, a victim to the cage they have put onto him, the chains they have bound and the names they have called. He will not die so easily, for he is not just the leaves, he is the trunk, he is the roots. He is the trouble-making creature that eats away at the tree in revenge, he is the creature that builds his home in the tree for shelter, he is the creature who gets his food from the tree, he is the creature who has _family_ – yes, he has family. It is not human like theirs, but it is the buildings and the scenery, the smell of the air and the different emotions the sky and sun and clouds feel for him. The rain cries for him, it washes everything away and helps him start over. Everything else is like this, and while the people of Konoha do not understand - _they will never understand_ - he understands. It is enough like this.

He is troubled. There are so many things he knows he should be, so many things he knows he should not be, but he does not want to follow them. At the same time, he wishes to do so, and this unearth sense of what he wants to be, sense of purpose, sense of want, sense of anything and everything. Though he denies it himself, he knows it is not like that. He wants it, he wants everything of theirs, yet he wants everything of his. He wants something to call his own, he wants a purpose, he wants a name, he wants a place in this world, he wants someone to treat him as though he has a place. So many things he wants.

He is death. He is the reminder to them of what they have lost; he is the constant living embodiment of something they will never leave alone. He finds himself frightened yet intrigued by the strength they gain from that, the courage they take to throw away the possibility of nights endless and wandering. In his dreams, he sees of many deaths, he sees the blood and he sees the lives swish so easily, end with a single beckon from him. Should he be scared of this? He does not know, but it sends him screaming away and crying because there is nothing that he knows that is real and what is not – he does not know if these dreams are reality, he cannot tell the difference and he does not know if he wants to. It is painful, it is horrible, but he keeps himself going because while death cannot be cheated, he will somehow manage, panicking and his heart screaming.

He is Uzumaki Naruto. He is a child that does not want to be an adult; he is someone who wants to understand what he cannot. He wants to be someone he cannot, he takes what he can get, his nature is rebellious they say, but he knows it is his. It is one of the rare things that is his. This body is his, this mind is his, this skin, these eyes, this hair, this voice, this being, and this life is his. This is his, all of it, and he feels a tremble rise in his bones and the cool feeling of shivering. He attributes it to eagerness, happy realization, but the traces of panic and fear dwell in the shadows of his mind. He does not know if this is normal, he does not know why he wishes to be normal, yet he does not know why he wishes to stand out at the same time. It is such a thing that drives him to confusion, such a thing that drives him to do so many things that will help him learn and will help him know.

He is the wind. He may move where they place him, but he will always drift back. What they say harms him, but he will eventually heal. He learns to avoid them and their ways, but he is drawn to them. They will never be rid of him. He will not let them, but this is a weak way to say it in all else. He lets himself be taken by the waves, but he will make his own path there. Let it be known, he thinks, let me do what I may. It is his purpose, after all, his own life he seeks, and what he seeks is the best he can get. He will not settle for anything less, and he is pleased that he knows while there are others who cannot decide, who will be bound by only what limits they set on themselves, he has still not become them and have stayed himself.

Out of all the things that he could be, all the things that he can be, all the things that he was, he knows this. He sees no such limits. He sees not the boundaries, he sees not the impossible, he sees things that can be done and can be _achieved._

And that is what starts a fire in his blood, the taste on his lips, dreams kindling anew. The voice that was so loud in the darkness is now nothing but an echo, and he is happy.

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_End._


End file.
